Without waiting for my help, she picked it up and moved it silently across the floor. There, faint but unmistakable, was the seam of the hidden door. I pressed on the wall, and it swung open. Beyond was darkness.

I reached inside the door and found a small lantern hanging on the wall. We lit it, dimmed the light, and stepped inside the storeroom, closing the door behind us to hide the glare from any unlikely passerby.

The light swept across the long, dusty storeroom, and I saw it wasn’t just one crate. It was dozens, stacked to the ceiling, going back thirty feet, perhaps more. All with the sigil. All begging me to peek inside.

“You didn’t happen to bring a crowbar?” I said.

“Crowbars are for weaklings.”

Hellida wrapped her hands around the lid of the nearest crate, braced her feet against the side, and ripped it open. She shoved it across the floor, scattering sawdust into the air, and laughed like I hadn’t heard her laugh in years.

“Congratulations, detective,” she said. “Corsets. As many as we want, and factory fresh.”

“Prewar quality,” I said, lifting the corset and holding it to the light. It was periwinkle, the same suffocating model I had tried on. I tossed it aside and it landed, thud, somewhere in the dark.

“Where next?” said Hellida. “We break into the vault at Aylesmere’s, maybe, and try on bridal gowns. Or better yet, we go home.”

“We should,” I said, but instead I picked up the second corset in the box. I ran my hands over it, tracing the stitching, testing the strength of the boning, wondering how much a woman must hate herself to strap herself into one of these every day. When I lowered it back into the box, the light glinted off something in the bottom of the crate.

I yanked out a few more corsets, hurling them over my shoulder, and halfway down the crate, my hands hit glass. I held the bottle to the lantern. The liquid sloshing around in there was crystal clear, and a quick sip, followed by a truly unladylike coughing fit, told me it wasn’t water.

“Copeland was moving liquor,” I said.

“Now, flicka,” said Hellida, finally stern. “I close this crate, and we go home.”

“I won’t stand in your way.”

She took the bottle out of my hand and lowered it back into the crate as though it might explode if mishandled. She was right to. I’m always happy to drink bootleg gin, but even I am not stupid enough to ask where it comes from. In Barbarossa’s New York, those kinds of questions are generally answered with a cut throat.

Hellida stacked the corsets tidily and replaced the lid of the crate.